


A Case of You

by canis_m



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Graphic depictions of chardonnay, M/M, Romance, Wine, Wine Mom Hannibal Lecter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-05 11:04:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6702178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canis_m/pseuds/canis_m
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will doesn't find wine that interesting. The proprietor of a certain bar thinks he will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

According to Beverly, the bar had replaced an old diner on 4th Avenue, a couple of blocks from the banks of the Potomac. On most days Will's chief feeling about bars was why drink in the company of humans when you could drink at home in the company of dogs--for less money and in greater comfort--but home was an hour away, and the bar was right in front of him. 

He needed a drink. He pushed through the door.

Inside, he could see the bones of the old diner in the interior design: the row of narrow booths along one wall, the bar on the opposite side. Instead of chrome and vinyl it was all dark wood and soothing tones, contemporary with shades of the aristocratic. The bar was a long, sleek span topped with veined dark marble, adjoined by an open kitchen. In one booth sat a woman absorbed in her laptop, a glass of red in arm's reach. 

Will slid onto a stool at the end of the bar and dropped his bag at his feet. 

The bartender approached. He wore a shirt and tie and a black waist apron that covered his hips. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows. He set a coaster and a single-page menu in front of Will with smooth precision. 

"Good afternoon," he said. "What would you like?"

"Whiskey," said Will. "Neat."

"I'm afraid we serve only wines, fortified wines, and craft beers, with an emphasis on local producers. No hard liquor."

Not a real bar. A fucking wine bar. Of course. Will rubbed his face, nearly dislodging his glasses. He reached for the menu, stared at it for a second, then shook his head. 

"I don't know. You tell me."

"Are you in the mood for red or white?"

He was in the mood for 80 proof. "I'm not much of a wine drinker."

"There are only two kinds of wine drinkers," said the bartender, "those who know they are wine drinkers, and those who have yet to discover it." 

He delivered this piece of inanity with a twinkle in his eye. He wasn't young but had the kind of face that aged well. Inordinate cheekbones, soulful gaze. A boyish sweep to the muddy blond hair. Old World accent. Will bet the ladies ate that shit right up.

"Cute," he said. "Just pour me a glass."

The bartender inclined his head. He placed a glass on Will's coaster. "We'll begin with whites. I'll give you a taste of the Stag's Leap, and we'll proceed from there until you find something agreeable."

He produced a bottle from below the bar, displayed it long enough for Will to take in the antlered deer on the label, and drew a corkscrew from his apron. Will watched his sure grasp on the neck of the bottle, the expert twisting of his wrist.

The wine poured a lucid pale gold. "One could start with something less substantial, but you don't strike me as the type. This is the 2013 Chardonnay. Aged partly in stainless steel barrels; the oak is not overwhelming. The style is crisp." 

Will reached for the glass. He didn't bother with sniffing or swirling. He took a sip. 

It tasted like white wine. He'd be needing a lot more of it.

"It's fine. I'll have a glass."

The bartender paused. "You wouldn't care to sample others?"

"I'll start with this," said Will.

The bartender filled his glass, then ensconced himself in the kitchen and began to dismantle a pomegranate with gory efficiency. Apparently he doubled as a chef. Will took another swig of wine. He closed his eyes, intending to focus on the taste.

It was a mistake. As soon as his eyes shut, he was back in the shooting range, firing round after round into the oncoming specter of Garret Jacob Hobbs. Emptying his gun. The bullets tore, and Hobbs kept coming. Will drew a breath through his nose and opened his eyes again, swallowing. His hand gripped reflexively at the stone edge of the bar.

He made short work of the first glass. 

Other customers began to file in, filling the booths: the happy hour crowd, largely women, occasional men. As if conjured by the arrivals, a young waitress emerged from the back of the bar. Like the bartender she wore dark slacks and blouse and an apron. She was pretty, put together, with hair pulled back into a French braid. Will followed her briefly with his eyes, saw how she smiled unreservedly for the women, politely for the men. 

He looked away. When another party arrived, Will pulled off his coat and threw it over the empty seat beside him, a levee against the rising tide.

Halfway through his second glass, a plate appeared in front of him: small rounds of toasted bread and a dish of what looked like soft white cheese. Ruby arils gleamed on top of the mound like beads of shining blood.

Will frowned. "I didn't order this."

"On the house," said the bartender. "Crostini with fresh quark and pomegranate caviar. Please, enjoy."

Will wanted to refuse, if only to deny the phrase _pomegranate caviar_ any legitimacy, but his stomach flipped and roiled with neglect. He dropped a napkin over his leg and reached for the knife. 

"You serve crostini with subatomic particles?"

"Our hadron collider is in the back, yes. A converted oven." The bartender unfolded a hand towel to wipe invisible crumbs from the bar. "Do you work in the area?"

Will had to pause, distracted by his mouthful of glorified cheesy toast. The quark had a tang like sour cream, mingled with sweetness when the pomegranate arils burst. It was delicious. He felt vaguely resentful of how delicious it was. He washed it down--resentment and all--with another swallow of wine.

"I teach," he said. "Forensics."

"At the academy."

"No, the local elementary." As he shoved another bite into his mouth Will reconsidered his present level of snark toward an innocent member of the service industry. One who was giving him free food. "Sorry. It's been a day. It's been several days. Consecutively."

"I understand. I hope you'll find this evening a useful antidote."

Will grunted. He smeared another crostini and raised it as if to make a toast. "Good particles."

The bartender smiled as he left to attend to one of the booths. "Enjoy."

The food seemed to improve the wine--either that, or Will was just getting used to it. He reached for the menu and peered over his glasses at it, reviewing the descriptions he'd ignored before. He sniffed at the Chardonnay, sipped again, and furrowed his brow. 

When the bartender reappeared, Will said, "I'm supposed to be getting apple and vanilla out of this. I'm not getting apple or vanilla."

"The key to enjoying wines is to let go of any preconceived notions about what you should or shouldn't take from the experience," the bartender said. "That's true for anyone, not just novices. I have an experienced palate, but I often find my impressions differ from those of others." He leaned toward Will, both hands splayed on the counter behind the bar. Proprietary in his stance. "What are you getting, if not apple?"

"Citrus," said Will, trying not to make it a question. 

"Lemon, perhaps?"

Will nodded. "And something else, some other kind of fruit. Peach?" A question that time. He couldn't help it.

"Stone fruits, yes. That sweetness will come to the fore as it opens up."

He felt warmed, in spite of himself, for having gotten it right. Or maybe that was the alcohol pooling in his belly. He eyed the menu, then held it up, cocking his thumb at the descriptions. "I assume you have a hand in these."

"I do."

"Do you ever put total, egregious bullshit in, just to see if anyone calls you out?"

The bartender's lips pressed together, but his eyes were bright. "You're a teacher. Do you ever ask your students trick questions in class?"

Will twitched at that. "Purely for their benefit."

"Of course. Education is the aim. Entertainment is merely a perk. In any event, I confess nothing." He excused himself, smiling, as the waitress approached with an order.

The evening blurred into night. Other customers came and went. Will returned from the men's room to find his empty glass of white replaced by a tasting pour of red. 

He glanced at the bartender, who was impaling meatballs on skewers and arranging them on plates with what seemed to Will like a comical degree of fuss.

"What am I drinking now?" Will asked.

"Zinfandel. The Ravenswood. Do you have any dietary restrictions?"

Will was about to shake his head, and then in his mind's eye he saw the glint of Garret Jacob Hobbs' teeth.

"No human flesh," he said.

The bartender scarcely batted an eyelash. "I believe we can accommodate." He stopped fussing, scattered cilantro, and set one of the plates in front of Will. "Lamb meatballs with a spiced tomato sauce."

"I didn't order this, either," said Will. The bartender looked unabashed.

"The first hit is free," he said, and then he swept up the second plate to carry it off toward one of the booths.

The meatballs were small, almost bite-sized. Will dipped one in the ramekin of sauce and put it into his mouth. A strange, involuntary noise escaped him. He took a drink of the wine to cover it, and nearly made the noise again. It seemed like a sequence worth revisiting: meatball, wine. Rinse, repeat.

The bartender returned from his foray. He glanced at Will with eyebrows raised. "Yes?"

Will nodded and tapped his glass. The bartender uncorked the bottle. As he poured, Will caught a glimpse of the ravens on the label, staring out at him with white-rimmed eyes.

*

When he asked for the check, the bartender paused only to ask about dessert.

"You've yet to try anything local. I have a very nice port from Elk Run."

"Not this time," Will said. 

At first sight of the bill he nearly snorted aloud--could've bought himself a nice bottle of single malt for that price--but he didn't stint on the tip. The bartender was busy across the room, filling glasses for an increasingly voluble four top. Will signed the receipt, shrugged on his jacket, and left the bar. 

The temperature had dropped outside. With the wine in his blood Will hardly noticed. He could feel the flush in his face and throat. He stopped at his car long enough to drop off his bag and feed the meter, then started down the street, heading toward the municipal park along the river. His hands crept into his pockets as he walked. 

The park was deserted, occupied only by huddled shrubs. Lamplight fell at intervals in isolated pools. Will's feet carried him on the curved path to the river, toward the pier that extended from the banks. People fished from it during the day, but at this hour it was empty. Will thought of walking out on it, of standing suspended over the water and the reflected lights that floated in its smoothness. Thought of letting himself drift. 

When he looked away, back toward the continuing path, he saw Garret Jacob Hobbs. Not coming toward him but lying prone, as he'd lain when he'd finally fallen. Bloody and full of holes. Above the body, pieces of night broke and fractured into angular fragments. The fragments became winged shapes that beat in a descending gyre. They called to Will. 

They came to roost on top of Hobbs, wings mantled and beaks agape.

*

The sound of knocking woke him. At first he heard it as the clop of hooves, and thought he saw a soft muzzle breathe clouds against the glass. Then his mind cleared, and he recognized the waitress from the bar as she peered through the driver's side window. Will squinted in confusion at the interior of his own car. His seat was halfway reclined. He fumbled for the control to raise it. 

"He's okay," said the waitress, turning to one side. Her voice was muffled. "I mean, he's conscious."

The bartender loomed up at her shoulder, dressed in an overcoat against the cold. The coat was dark wool, adamantly fitted. It made him look more severe, and more like landed gentry than someone who made a living pouring drinks. 

"Thank you, Margot. I'll take it from here. Have a good night."

"Good night, Doctor." 

Sparing a last glance for Will--more dubious than curious--the waitress disappeared from sight. The bartender remained, waiting for Will to roll down the window or open the door. Patient, polite. Persistent.

Will opened the door.

"Mr. Graham. How are you feeling?"

"Fine," said Will. He didn't ask how the guy knew his name, not when he'd paid by credit card. "Also, drunk. Which was the goal in coming here, so I feel good about that." 

"May I call you a cab?"

Will cast about himself and patted for his glasses. He didn't want to lose them, even if they weren't real. Finding them in his pocket, he flopped backward in relief. "I might just take another nap."

"I'm afraid it would reflect poorly on my business to leave you sleeping in your car outside."

Will squinted up at him. "You're the owner?"

"Owner, sommelier, chef, and sole proprietor." A gloved hand extended. "Hannibal Lecter."

Slowly Will reached in return to shake his hand. "Doctor of--wine? Do they give doctorates in wine?"

"I recently left a career in medicine. Margot knows me from my former life."

"Huh." Turning, Will dug out his wallet and made a show of thumbing through it for absent cash. Never mind that every cab these days accepted cards. "Looks like I am fresh out of cab fare. Spent it all at this--" he gestured "--pricey bar."

"In that case, may I offer you a lift? To the campus, perhaps. Or to your home."

"I live in Wolf Trap. Probably out of your way."

"The campus, then."

"I'm not really in a mood to go back there right now." Will slumped against the seat. He hadn't meant to continue--hadn't meant to be talking to anyone at this hour, after the wine, but all at once the words came heaving out of him, like vomit over the doctor's shoes. "I shot someone. The other day. Took me ten rounds to drop him. I was at the shooting range this afternoon, trying not to relive it and failing. Just spectacularly." His hands made futile motions at his sides. He curled them, brought them to heel against his hip. "I never...never killed anyone before."

The doctor's head cocked. "Did he deserve it?"

"He murdered some girls and ate them, so." 

The doctor blinked. It was the first sign he'd shown of startlement at anything Will had said. 

"Not that dreadful case in Minnesota. What was it. Garret Jacob Hobbs? I saw it in the news."

"That's the one."

There was a pause. Dr. Lecter seemed to be studying Will anew. His face became impossible to read. He stepped away long enough to feed the parking meter, then returned to the driver's side door. 

"Agent Graham. Please, allow me to drive you home. A gesture of thanks from the appreciative public."

At least he hadn't burst into applause. Or recoiled in disgust. Will dragged his feet for a minute more--he'd have to get a cab tomorrow to pick up the Volvo, or ask for a ride from Beverly. Then he hauled himself and his bag out of the car. 

"'M not an agent," he muttered. "Special investigator."

"I beg your pardon. I don't pretend to understand the FBI's organizational hierarchy."

The doctor's car was a Bentley, hearse-black. Its interior smelled of polish and leather, masculine and clean. Will sank gingerly into the passenger seat, nudged his bag under the dash. He drew a breath that filled his lungs and exhaled deeply.

The car purred to life as Dr. Lecter turned the key. He took a minute to adjust the climate controls, to ask for Will's address and enter it into the GPS. Neither of them spoke again until they'd pulled onto the interstate.

"There was a wife and daughter, yes? In the Hobbs case. They both survived?"

Will nodded. "He was about to cut her throat when I shot him. The daughter. He still cut her, but. Missed the artery. The mother had some first aid training, which was lucky. I wasn't much help at that point."

"By that point you had already saved them both."

Will glanced at him sidelong, at his gloved hands on the steering wheel at ten and two. "What kind of doctor were you?"

"I was a surgeon. I specialized in trauma and critical care."

The meticulous skewers of meatballs suddenly made more sense. "Sounds...eventful."

"It became surprisingly routine, over time."

"So you quit because you were bored?"

"Because I killed someone. Or, to be more accurate, I failed to save someone. I'd lost patients on the operating table before. It's inevitable. But this one was very young. As the attending surgeon I gave the news to her parents and older brother. That was enough."

Dr. Lecter kept his eyes on the road as he spoke. There'd been no hesitance in the admission. Will accepted it as a grim sort of keepsake, offered in exchange for his own.

"And now you pour wine for middle-aged ladies."

A faint smile. "For ladies. Sometimes gentlemen. Once in a blue moon a wild investigator wanders into the fold. And if I break a glass in the kitchen, no one dies as a result."

"Do I seem wild?"

"I wouldn't call you tame." 

The doctor sounded pleased about it. Will looked at him sideways, quizzical, then puffed a laugh and let his head fall back against the seat.

The headlights of oncoming traffic glowed on the far side of the median. Will listened to the whirr of passing cars. The Bentley ran quietly, absurdly smooth. Will's old wagon was solid, good for hauling, and it would go another hundred thousand miles if he maintained it right, but it rode like a steel shark cage on wheels. Rattled like one, too. 

His eyelids drooped. He didn't mean to let them shut--should've learned that lesson already--but when they did, there was only the low hum of the road and the purl of whatever nocturne was playing on the sound system, almost too unobtrusive to be heard.

*

"Mr. Graham."

A hand touched his arm. Broad and warm, even through the sleeve of Will's jacket. Will blinked his eyes open. The car was parked in his driveway in Wolf Trap, engine idling. The hand withdrew. The impression of warmth persisted. 

"Have I brought us to the right place?"

"Yeah, this is it." Will rubbed a hand over one eye and unbuckled his seatbelt. He couldn't believe he'd fallen asleep. 

The doctor gazed at the house, the moonlit fields, the stand of silvered woods. "It's beautiful. Quite private."

"Thanks. Thanks for the ride. You really shouldn't have."

"On the contrary, I'm glad I did." He turned toward Will, mischief crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Not going to ask me in for a drink?"

Will groaned, nearly laughed, but something in Dr. Lecter's expression stifled him. Some quality of inquiry, fine but discernible in the clear gaze. 

Will went still. His mouth felt dry. "I'm not, uh--" He stopped. "I don't--"

He didn't know how to finish the thought. He didn't any number of things. Get publicly drunk. Let strangers drive him home. Sit in a stranger's car in his own driveway letting himself be flirted with, or whatever this was. Or date men. Or date, period. He fidgeted on the suddenly precarious leather seat. 

The doctor's lips softened. He gave the impression of courteous retreat without actually shifting away. 

"It would hardly be proper, in any case."

He reached into the breast pocket of his coat and drew out a business card. Slid the card into the front pocket of Will's jacket. Smoothed the fabric down over it for the duration of a skipped heartbeat, then another, before withdrawing his hand.

"I hope you'll stop in again, if only to sample more wines. Good night, Mr. Graham."

Will managed a nod, a terse bob of the head. He groped for his bag. Then he was out of the car, cold air streaming around him. Before he could shut the door, Dr. Lecter leaned toward him, across the passenger seat.

"Water and aspirin," he said earnestly. As if hangovers might be as foreign to Will as wine had been. 

Will let out a huff of breath. "Yeah, I'm on it. G'night."

He swung the door shut. He made it to the porch, feeling winded as if he'd been sprinting, before turning to watch the car pull away. The night air felt stark on his skin. 

When the car was gone, he opened the door to let the dogs pour out. He stepped inside only long enough to drop his bag and flip on a light. He came back out, went to the porch chair, and sank as though his legs had given way beneath him. 

The dogs ran amok in the yard. Slowly, almost absently, Will reached for his front coat pocket. He could see by the lamplight through the window, enough to make out the words on the card.

Dvaras  
Wine Bar | Small Plates

There were addresses, web and physical. A printed phone number. Will turned the card over, tracing its edges between his thumbs. Nothing on the back. No handwritten note, nothing personal. But his mind replayed the motions: the lowered eyelids, the lingering hand. 

He watched the dogs mill without seeing them. At last the air's chill began to press itself to the nape of his neck. Hunching into his jacket, Will slipped the card back into his front pocket. He ghosted his fingers over it, testing how that would feel, and called the dogs in.

*


	2. Chapter 2

After the dead man seized his arm, Will walked away from the garden of graves, past the borders of police tape, into the woods. _I need a minute,_ he'd muttered to Jack, and Jack had frowned but let him go. _Go clear your head,_ he'd said. Making it an order. Will retreated without another word into the trees.

He didn't have to go far before all signs and sounds of the crime scene disappeared, obscured by foliage and the hush of moving leaves. Most of the trees were maple. The golden light of autumn pervaded among them. It helped to distance Will, to lift him from the shock that clung to him like clammy earth. He walked until the pounding of his pulse began to ease.

Amid the sway of leaves he heard the sound of running water. Before long he came to the stream. It was small, a winding creek, shallow enough to wade through without getting soaked above the knees. In the curve of its meander lay a sloping bank of mingled stones and silt, punctuated with animal tracks. 

One of the track-makers stood at the water's edge, bending to drink.

A deer, Will thought at first. Then he saw the sheen of iridescence, the ruff of feathers on its neck and throat. Not it, but he: a stag crowned with antlers, resplendent in the autumnal light. Water lapped around the stag’s forelegs. Feathers rose like blooming gooseflesh as he lifted his head, muzzle dripping, to gaze at Will.

Will didn't breathe. His own throat rippled: an intimation of reflected thirst. He wanted to draw nearer, to get a closer look, but he didn't dare to move. 

From far away rose a shrilling wail.

The feathered stag flinched, eyes rolling toward the sound. He started from the water and up the bank, tail flaring. Droplets scattered in all directions. As the stag leapt away, moving in impossible bounds toward the depths of the wood, Will saw the wings unfurl from his shoulders, glossy, gleaming like sails where they caught the light.

The next thing Will knew, he was jerking his head as if coming awake from a doze. He felt bark against his back and shoulders, and looked up to find himself crouched under one of the maples, braced against the bole of the tree. The siren of an ambulance receded into the distance. A strand of yellow caution tape glinted on the edge of his sight.

*

When the bartender set the bowl on the counter, Beverly stared. Her shoulders quivered. It took Will a few seconds to realize she was sniggering, almost without sound. He envied her the capacity. 

Dr. Lecter glanced back and forth between them. "Is there a problem with the mushrooms?"

"No, they look great." Beverly turned to Will. "Did you order this?"

"No, I didn't." To Dr. Lecter he said, "It's not them. It's us. There's a case." 

"I apologize if I've raised unpleasant associations. I've been thinking of adding this dish to the menu and hoped you might do me the service of a taste test. Shall I bring something else?"

"Heck no," said Beverly. "I'll eat it if Will won't."

Will managed not to pull a face. "Really?"

"Do you want to let some zombie shroom farmer dictate your eating choices? You gotta get back in the saddle."

When she put it that way, it seemed like an act of righteous defiance. Will impaled a mushroom on his fork and stuck it into his mouth. It tasted nothing like any mushroom he'd ever eaten. He closed his eyes.

"These are amazing," said Beverly, muffled. "I'd eat this any day."

"I'm glad to hear it." Dr. Lecter wiped his hand towel across the spotless bar, then folded the towel into a rectangle so perfect that Will suspected it expressed the golden mean. "It's a traditional Spanish preparation. Garlic, white wine, sherry vinegar. Very simple." 

He was dressed much as he'd been the last time Will had seen him: shirt and tie, tailored pants, black apron. The shirt today was claret instead of steel blue. The tie was a garden of efflorescent paisley. Will tried to puzzle out why the paisley didn't strike him as absurd, with little success.

The doctor returned his scrutiny with good humor. "I'm pleased to see you again, Mr. Graham. I was concerned I might have scared you off with my enthusiasm."

Will leveled a look over the rim of his glass. "You're not that scary."

"And you've brought a colleague, as well."

"I'm the one who told Will about this place," said Beverly, hefting her beer. "I also told him if I had to drive all the way out to Wolf Scat to give him a ride, he owed me a drink."

"It's Trap," said Will, "and thank you. Again." He wasn't sure which of them he was thanking. Probably both.

"The more, the merrier," the doctor said. "Enjoy." 

As he retreated, Beverly turned her attention to Will. "So what's the deal with your status? Are you back in the field, or not?"

Will grimaced. "I seem to be in limbo. Or bureaucratic hell. Jack insisted I go through an eval. I had a session with Alana Bloom, which was about as awkward as expected. She has yet to submit the evaluation, but. She doesn't think being on active duty is in my best interests."

"What do you think?"

He looked away. His thumb traced up and down the stem of his glass. "After Minnesota it's hard to say she's wrong."

"But Jack wants you out there. So, what, is he just gonna keep dragging you along as a consultant? That's bullshit, Will. If you're doing the work, you should get the title and the pay grade to go with it."

"I'll drink to that," muttered Will.

Their glasses clinked: his wine against her beer. "Look at us," said Beverly. "Subverting gender roles with our beverages of choice."

"I drink enough whiskey to feel like my manhood's securely pickled."

"I like a good daiquiri. I guess that's pretty girly."

"The original daiquiri was a favorite of Ernest Hemingway," said Dr. Lecter, returning toward them from the far end of the bar. "As was whiskey and soda," he added, with a nod to Will. "A man's man, Hemingway. Not that I would subscribe to any cultural associations between drinks and gender, which are, after all, as arbitrary as blue for boys and pink for girls."

The sudden image of Dr. Lecter slinging frozen concoctions in a Key West cabana made Will twitch. "What view of daiquiris would you subscribe to?" 

"There are occasions for daiquiris and occasions for whiskey."

"But let me guess," said Will. "Wine is for all occasions."

The sarcasm rolled right off, water from a duck's back; Dr. Lecter looked at Will as if Will were the endearing duckling that had splashed him. 

"How right you are."

The bar's house phone rang, and Dr. Lecter excused himself to take the call. In his absence Beverly propped an elbow on the bar and lowered her voice.

"He's cute, in a Euro-snob uncle kind of way. I think he likes you." 

_Likes_ likes, suggested her tone, in the schoolyard sense. So much for dismissing the business in Will’s driveway as a figment of inebriation. Still, he resisted. 

"It turns out pouring drinks and pretending to be interested is his job."

"Doesn't look like pretending. If I were you and I swung that way, I'd think about hitting it."

"I don't." He felt no need to admit how little swinging he'd done in recent years, in any direction, but some excess of pointless honesty made him add, "Historically."

Beverly wore the same expression of blatant cheek she had during their discussion of clacking swinging ball things. "You thinking about changing teams? Maybe for an inning?"

"Could we back away from the baseball metaphors?" 

"I'm just messing with you, Graham.” A cell phone buzzed. Wrinkling her nose, Beverly pulled it from her jacket and scanned the incoming texts. In the lull, Will caught snatches of Dr. Lecter's conversation: _As for the Petrus, at the moment I have only one bottle…from my private collection, yes. The price is as we previously--_

At Beverly's sigh, he refocused on her. "Is that Jack?"

"No, it's Jimmy. I guess I better head back. Back to the lab to see what's on the slab." She drained the last of her beer and swung down from the bar stool. "You got this, right?"

"Yeah, it’s on me."

"Cheers. I'll see you later."

Dr. Lecter came to collect Beverly's glass. He watched the door swing shut behind her.

"A redoubtable young woman," he said.

"She's a good egg," said Will. It didn't escape his notice that Beverly--who was probably his own age, or close enough for government work--registered to Dr. Lecter as young. He swirled the wine in his glass. It was a grenache, the doctor had said, from the Central Coast. 

"Speaking of redoubtable women. I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but did I hear you mention an Alana Bloom? Dr. Bloom?"

Will blinked. "You know her?"

"I knew her during her residency at Johns Hopkins. Not well, but we crossed paths now and again. I regret that I haven't kept in touch. Is she consulting for the FBI?"

"For the Behavioral Analysis Unit, yeah. Sometimes she guest lectures."

"The proverbial small world. Do you happen to know if she's accepting new patients?"

"I don't. I could ask her." Will squinted. "Are you in the market for a therapist?"

"On behalf of a friend." Dr. Lecter paused, observing the tepidity on Will's face. "Would you not recommend Dr. Bloom as a therapist?"

"She's good at what she does. I'm just less than enthusiastic about therapy."

"I confess, I'm a believer in the talking cure. For a time I considered psychiatry as a profession. But certainly, without a rapport between doctor and patient, it can be an exercise in futility for both."

Will hunched over his wine. "To put it mildly."

"That sounds like the voice of negative experience." When Will said nothing, only took a long and noncommittal drink, Dr. Lecter hazarded a guess. "You resent intrusion into the sanctuary of your mind."

"Sometimes it's not much of a sanctuary. But yeah. Past intruders have been...intrusive."

"Bulls in a china shop?"

"I wouldn't say I'm fine china."

"Thieves in the temple, then." Before Will could protest that he wasn't holy ground, either, the doctor continued. "If they were a source of disorder instead of clarity, it was a poor match."

Will snorted. "I've found more clarity in the bottom of a bottle of Jim Beam."

"Is that your whiskey of choice?"

He could've laughed. "No, not since I was an undergrad." He'd bought a bottle a couple of years back, for old times' sake. It was drinkable mixed with nostalgia, if not much else. "If you're so interested in psychoanalysis, why didn't you go into it?"

"It seemed like hubris to imagine that I might heal minds when I had failed at bodies."

The words were casually spoken, but they brought Will up short. He studied the doctor's mild expression. He wondered if the continuous keening of a flatlined monitor sometimes sounded in his ears, even now. The music of a stopping heart.

"Little hard on yourself, there," he said.

Dr. Lecter lowered his eyes and chin minutely, as if to grant the point. "Aside from that, perhaps, like you, I prefer to seek truth elsewhere. _In vino veritas._ " He gestured. "Would you like another glass?"

Will shook his head. "Can't. I should be getting back, too." He aimed his fork at the last of the mushrooms. "I'll, ah, I'll talk to Alana."

"I’d be grateful," the doctor said, and brought him the check.

*

Alana appeared in the lecture hall as the last of Will's students were trailing out. She carried a plain manila envelope tucked under one arm. Will's eyes flickered, a bare acknowledgment of her presence. He went back to shutting down the overhead projector and collecting his things.

"Here to deliver the verdict?" he asked.

"I wanted to talk to you first." Alana glanced over her shoulder, a final check for lingering trainees. "I heard there was an incident at the state park. Jack said it was...unsettling."

"If you're referring to the incident in which what everyone thought was a fungi-laden corpse tried to rise from the grave, then yes. I'd file that under unsettling."

Her expression was all rueful sympathy. "How are you?"

"Better than the corpse," said Will. "Who is back to being dead."

When he declined to elaborate, Alana leaned her hip against the desk. "We ran out of time the other day before I had a chance to ask. What are you hoping to get out of going back into the field, Will? I know what Jack wants out of it. What do you want?"

Will stopped shuffling his notes into meaningless disorder. He took off his glasses to rub at his eyes, then returned them to his nose.

"If I don't go to crime scenes, I can't look. If I don't look, I can't _see,_ I can't help catch them. That's what I want. Do I need to go charging in with guns blazing when it's time to make an arrest?" 

He remembered his hands shaking. Blood spraying his face, blood pounding in his ears as he fired. The glory of destroying Hobbs. The horror after, while Hobbs' wife flailed over her bleeding daughter and dead husband. Will looked away from Alana, at his hand curled crookedly on the desk. 

"Other people can do that. Other people can't _look_ the way I can."

"So what I'm hearing is, you'd be satisfied with a role focusing on crime scene investigation."

After a hesitation, Will nodded.

Alana offered him the envelope. "In keeping with that, I'm recommending a limited return to field duty. I'd be prepared to recommend a full return, if I knew you were receiving ongoing support in the form of--"

"Therapy," said Will. Like it was a curse. But he'd never expected Alana to issue anything other than her best judgment, regardless of what he or Jack or anyone else had to say. He took the envelope and didn't open it. He turned to shove it into his bag. 

"Everybody needs somebody to talk to, Will. Doesn't have to be me. Probably better if it's not me."

Do dogs count, he was about to ask--because if they did he had seven somebodies. Then, unbidden, he heard the clink of glass on a marble counter, the liquid sound of a liberal pour. Saw eyes the color of cognac, steady in their regard. Attentive. Unfazed by anything coming out of Will's mouth. 

"Does it have to be a therapist?" 

Alana looked quizzical. Mouth twisting, Will shook his head in a wordless _never mind_. He powered down his laptop, then glanced up again.

"Do you have any memory of a Dr. Hannibal Lecter?"

*

Hannibal watched his guest approach the bar's storefront, saw her hesitate at the "Closed" sign on the door. He went to the door to open it before she could knock. 

"Hello, Alana. Please come in."

Seven years and more, it had been, but she'd changed little since he'd last seen her. A touch more buxom, if only a touch. The wrap dress in its abstract reds and golds flattered her figure. Her hair was longer, perhaps. 

"You're looking well," he said. She beamed up at him with only a hint of incredulity.

"Same to you. It's good to see you." She stepped inside, gazing wide-eyed around the interior space. "I'd heard about a new bar opening in Quantico, but I had no idea--" She shook her head. 

"Would you like something to drink?" He went behind the bar. She followed as far as one of the bar stools and perched upon it.

"Beer, if you have it. Your smallest glass. I've got a lot of running around still to do after this."

"I appreciate your taking the time to answer my call."

He poured her a half pint of the Morana from Devil's Backbone, named for the Czech goddess of winter and death. In Lithuania her name was _Morė._ The lager itself was dark and malty, with roasted notes and a whiff of smoke, as if to evoke the goddess-figures burned in effigy by unmarried girls. Hannibal found it a little too conventional, if not without appeal. 

"Thanks." Alana took a sip, then raised her eyebrows and the glass in appreciation. "I may still be in shock."

"Over?" Hannibal observed her fingers on the glass. They, too, were as he remembered: pale, not slender, untrammeled by rings. 

"You. This. I can't believe you gave up being a surgeon. I told Will when I last saw you, you were the rock star of the ER."

"Better to exit the stage before becoming a has-been, no?"

She rolled her eyes. "I doubt you were in danger of that."

"It was time for a change," Hannibal said lightly. "Food and wine had always been a passion. I simply moved them from the back burner to the front."

"Well, you found a great place to do it. Love what you've done in here, by the way." Her glance encompassed the entirety of the bar.

"Thank you."

"I remember the diner that used to be here. Came in for breakfast once. They burned my blueberry pancakes. Never came back." 

"Once burned, twice shy."

"Exactly." She took another sip of beer. "So, you know how I know Will. How do you know Will?

"He arrived at my doorstep." Hannibal gestured with an open hand toward the facade. "Hungry and thirsty. By the time he left, he was neither. He's new to wine appreciation, but I believe we're making progress."

"Amazing," Alana said.

Hannibal tilted his head. "Is it so unlikely?"

"My impression is he doesn't get out much. Showing up at a place like this when he's not under duress is amazingly sociable, for him."

"I see." Hannibal considered. "Are you familiar with the sensation that arises when a wild animal accepts your proximity, when by rights and instinct it should be wary of human presence, and choose to run?" That remarkable sense of privilege, of being chosen by the animal or its patron god. Not only privilege but wonder, pleasure. The heady flush of unexpected success.

Alana pursed her lips. "I'm more familiar with the breed of suburban squirrels that look like they want to steal my lunch. But I see what you're getting at."

For a moment she seemed on the verge of saying more: some word of caution, perhaps. Protective of Will. Then she straightened in her seat, peeking down the hallway that led to the back door. Hannibal heard the sound of the door opening, followed by soft footsteps in the hall. 

"Ah. That would be Margot."

Alana slid from the bar stool and smoothed her dress. "This isn't an ambush, is it? I don't approve of ambushes."

"Nor would she. She's expecting you."

A moment later Margot emerged, wary as a wild creature herself. Hannibal performed the introductions. He offered the back office for their conversation and shepherded them to it. As he moved to the door to enclose their privacy, Margot cast him a mournful look, nearly piteous: _must I?_ Hannibal answered in kind-- _yes, you must_ \--and shut them in. 

He returned to the kitchen and busied himself with preparations for the night. There were the herbs to mince, the ham to slice in thin shavings. At length Alana reappeared, suitably poker-faced, but not displeased. She attempted to pay for her beer.

"On the house," Hannibal told her. "I insist. On the condition that we'll see you again soon."

"Oh, you can count on it."

When Margot emerged some time later, Hannibal poured her a glass of the Rendezvous from RdV. It was one of her favorites. She took the glass in hand and held it without taking so much as a sip, keeping it close to her chest.

"She seems...nice."

"A rousing endorsement," said Hannibal, pouring a glass for himself.

Margot gave a halfhearted shrug. "I like her better than Dr. Du Maurier. Less encased in permafrost." She glanced up at him. "Sorry."

"No need to be sorry. I only want you to find someone you're comfortable with."

"She said she specializes in family trauma. I guess that's a good fit." The hoarseness in her low voice attested to pain. 

"But?"

After a pause, Margot said, "I feel like everything she knows about it is probably secondhand."

Hannibal didn't refute her instinct. He suspected it was correct. "That doesn't mean she has nothing to offer," he said, as gently as he could.

"No. I know." At last Margot raised the glass to her lips, breathed in, and drank.

"Even if you have reservations, I'd encourage you to see her. It's a connection worth forming. She works for the FBI, directly under the head of the Behavioral Analysis Unit."

Margot gazed unhappily into the wine. "It seems mercenary, thinking about it like that."

"Not mercenary. Necessary." He spoke firmly. "You need allies, Margot."

"I know. We set up an appointment."

"Very good." Hannibal leaned back. "Now, I've been meaning to ask for your opinion. What would you say to an expansion of our beverage list?"

*

When the FBI caught Eldon Stammets, during the night rotation at a supermarket pharmacy, Will wasn't there. A part of him felt stymied, in spite of what he'd told Alana. Neglected and shortchanged. It wasn't a part of himself that he cared to feed. He finished reading the text message from Jack, then slipped his phone back into his pocket in time to see Dr. Lecter approaching his end of the bar, plate in hand.

He set the plate in front of Will. "Today's crostini. Capered egg salad with Serrano ham."

"Can't recall ordering any green eggs and ham," said Will, but he found himself fighting a smile. The egg salad wasn't really green, only dotted with capers and fresh herbs. The ham lay across it in lustrous shavings, pink and ribbon-thin. It looked good, and he hadn't eaten dinner.

"Consider it thanks for delivering my message to Dr. Bloom."

"Yeah, that was tough duty. You're not going to make any money off this place if you keep giving away food."

"The food is not the engine of profit, I assure you. And I'm fortunate in having other sources of income." The doctor reached idly for a tulip glass and toweled it off. "If you won't accept thanks, what about a bribe?"

Will reached for one of the crostini. "I used to be a cop, you know."

Bright interest from Dr. Lecter. "Would that make you more likely to accept bribery, or less?"

"Very funny."

"I'd like to ask another favor, but it may be more onerous than the last."

"Go on," said Will.

"I've been thinking of adding spirits to the menu. A small selection from local and regional producers. One distillery in particular has been trying to secure my interest, but I'm afraid my palate is not as good with whiskey or," a delicate pause, "moonshine, as it is with wines."

Will doubted the doctor's palate was less than proficient in anything. He removed his glasses, folded them, and set them on the bar. 

"You're looking for a booze consultant."

"Yes."

"You're asking me."

"I am. More specifically, I'd like you to come with me to a distillery and sample the offerings. When your schedule permits."

"You could find someone better," said Will. 

"I disagree. You're a whiskey drinker. You've already proved your willingness to offer unvarnished opinions."

Will took a bite of his Sam-I-Am crostini. Would this excursion be a date, he could have asked. It seemed like a legitimate question. He continued to chew. If he didn't ask, he might postpone acknowledging it as a matter of inquiry. Could suspend his acceptance or refusal in that capacity, either way.

He swallowed.

"Okay," he said.

Dr. Lecter's eyes narrowed with pleasure, like those of a cat over a mouthful of sardine. "I'll make the arrangements," he said. "Would you be free on a Sunday?"

The bar was closed Sundays and Mondays. "Usually," said Will. "Unless there's a case."

"I understand." The doctor noted the receding level in Will's glass of Rendezvous. "Another glass?"

Will declined, saying he needed to get home under his own power tonight, and at a decent hour. He was lucky he hadn't come home to puddles on the floor the last time. When the check arrived for him to sign, he put on his glasses as though he needed them to read it. He hesitated, feeling foolish and sophomoric. Then he stowed away his credit card, signed his name, and wrote his cell phone number on the paper slip.

*

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: mention of wines etc. does not constitute a recommendation by the author. XD In fact the Stag's Leap chard is overpriced; give it a pass unless you're really that into deer.


End file.
